“Come on,” Shane complained.
Ilya chuckled and carefully began to move. “Such a slut for it,” he said after a couple of slow thrusts. “Is it me that made you so horny, or is it the room?”
“What,” Shane gritted out, “are you talking about?”
“Are you all turned on thinking about all of your...” He adjusted his angle and gave Shane two quick, hard thrusts. “Many. Accomplishments.”
“It’s you. It’s only you,” Shane gasped.
Ilya loved it when Shane got like this, when he was flying too high to be annoyed or embarrassed. “Do you want to know a secret?” He bent over Shane so he could speak directly in his ear. “I feel like I am fucking a king right now.”
“Ilya—”
He grabbed a handful of Shane’s hair and tugged his head back. “Do you know how powerful this feels, fucking a king in his throne room?”
“Fu—fucking hell, Rozanov.”
Ilya wrapped an arm around Shane’s chest and hauled him up, as easily as if Shane were a doll and not a two-hundred-pound man. He held him close, Shane’s back pressed against Ilya’s chest, as Ilya pounded into him.
“You are Shane fucking Hollander,” Ilya growled. “If you ever forget that, I will drag you back in here and fuck you until you remember.”
“We—we’ll share a trophy room someday,” Shane stammered.
Ilya smiled. “Yes. A fucking empire.”
Shane tilted his head back against Ilya’s shoulder. “A dynasty,” he breathed. “Oh, fuck, Ilya. I love you.”
Ilya growled, and impulsively sank his teeth into Shane’s shoulder. Shane cried out, then clenched around Ilya’s cock as his orgasm rocked through him. His come splattered the chair, which Ilya knew would bother Shane as soon as he came down from his high.
Ilya didn’t give a shit about the chair. He jackhammered into Shane, never wanting to stop. He swore in Russian, told Shane he was perfect in Russian, then came hard inside him.
Finally, he fell forward, resting his forehead on Shane’s back as they both got their breathing under control. He realized that Shane must have turned off the vibrator while Ilya had been out of his mind.
“Holy shit,” Ilya finally wheezed.
“That got weird,” Shane said.
Ilya laughed, which made Shane laugh. Ilya kissed him between his shoulder blades, then carefully pulled out.
“I think I ruined the chair,” Shane said, sooner even than Ilya had expected.
“It is another trophy now,” Ilya said.
“Gross.”
“There is a towel here,” Ilya offered.
“Nah. I have some leather wipes I can use.”
Ilya smiled. “Of course you do.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
“There are few things in life that I absolutely can’t stand,” Roger Crowell said. His voice was deceptively calm, and Ilya didn’t miss the danger in it. “One thing I hate is surprises. Another is disloyalty. And another is liars.”
And homosexuals, Ilya added in his head.
“But the thing I hate most,” Crowell continued, “is being embarrassed. And I especially hate it when the league is embarrassed.”
“That does sound bad,” Ilya said mildly.
Crowell shot him a warning look, and when Ilya turned to Shane, he saw a similar expression on his face.
“You can imagine,” Crowell said, “how I feel about you two right now.”
This time, Ilya was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. He could feel the tension radiating off Shane beside him. Ilya would behave. For Shane.
Crowell leaned forward, both elbows on the large table between them. “Your actions have put me in a very difficult situation. On the one hand, your behavior is completely unacceptable and absolutely cannot be allowed. On the other, you’re two of the biggest stars in the league, and the playoffs are about to start.”
“Can’t be allowed?” Shane asked quietly.
Crowell’s eyes narrowed. “I would think that part would be obvious. But I guess it wasn’t, because there’s a video flying around the internet of you two making out.”
“It was a mistake,” Shane said.
“You’re fucking right it was a mistake!” Crowell yelled.
“I meant,” Shane said, surprisingly steadily, “the video wasn’t supposed to show that. We didn’t know.”
“Well, it did,” Crowell barked. “And I had to fly to Montreal to deal with it. You think I have time for this?” He took a breath and said, more calmly, “We need to get things back to normal as soon as possible. I don’t want a media circus around this thing.”
“We don’t either,” Shane said.
Crowell nodded. “The league has prepared a statement.” He opened a folder that was on the table in front of him and produced two sheets of paper. He handed one to each of them.
Ilya steeled himself, and began to read.
For nearly eleven seasons, Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov have been elite players in the NHL. Their skill and performance on the ice demonstrates a rare level of talent that thrills hockey fans everywhere. Earlier this week, a video was circulated on social media that depicted Mr. Hollander and Mr. Rozanov in an intimate embrace. After being questioned by the league’s commissioner, Roger Crowell, both players have confirmed that the incident was a prank they were pulling on their mutual friend, Hayden Pike. Both men regret their actions and the confusion it may have caused. They will return to their teams before their next scheduled games.
It was an easy out. Ilya knew this statement wouldn’t fool everyone, but he suspected enough hockey fans would believe this lie. Pranks in hockey were normal, falling in love with your rival wasn’t. This was something the hockey world—even other NHL players—could understand.
Shane was still reading. He hadn’t brought his glasses with him and was squinting at the page. Ilya didn’t want to hide anymore, but the playoffs were about to start and he couldn’t honestly blame Shane if he chose this easy cover-up, just to make the drama die down for a while. Ilya would fucking hate it, but he’d agree to it, if it was what Shane chose.
Finally, Shane’s head came up, and Ilya held his breath.
“But this isn’t true,” Shane said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Crowell said.
“It fucking does matter! It wasn’t a prank. We’re together. We’re—we’re getting married this summer.”